


by the grace of god

by lipsticksunrise



Series: murder boyfriends [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Death, Earth C (Homestuck), Established Relationship, M/M, Poisoning, Sexual Violence, but not permanent!, consensual murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipsticksunrise/pseuds/lipsticksunrise
Summary: Dirk smiles again, a funny little thing that makes you wonder if this conversation might be going down the dark alley you desperately want it to.Dirk likes to die. Jake likes to kill him. It works out.
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Series: murder boyfriends [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626889
Comments: 6
Kudos: 34





	by the grace of god

**Author's Note:**

> this can be read as a stand-alone or as a follow-up to [maladjustments](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22444021)! be mindful of the tags (full cw in end notes) and enjoy :)

It’s been a few months. A few good months, of course, the world moves slow and lazy and comfortable in this little house, and of course you’re not complaining that it’s been a few months since your boyfriend asked you to kill him, but - okay, you’re complaining, just a bit. No need to psychoanalyze yourself to find out why. No need for concern. No need for it to keep happening at all, not if Dirk doesn’t need it anymore. 

He probably doesn’t. He’s… good, these days, slow and comfortable and warm, a sort of sun for you to spin around, all tilted on your axis and too busy wondering about the next time you get to make him go supernova to really appreciate the light he gives. It’s a shit metaphor. It’s a shit situation. You want to kill your boyfriend, but you asked first last time and it’d probably be pushing it to ask first again. 

It’s - that doesn’t stop you daydreaming about it, of course. Day dreaming and night dreaming and dreaming in all of the spaces in between, plastic bags you say you’ll recycle but that you really stash away just in case, trips to the pharmacy and an entire drawer in your dresser devoted to bottles with little skull labels, guns and swords and knives and if anyone were to look inside of your room or your mind, there’s no doubt they’d peg you as a serial killer. Of course, by that token, you’re not following any specific pattern, and if there’s only one victim, you can’t really be that bad. You just …. can’t stop imagining it. Different places, different times, different ways of taking Dirk apart but there’s the common denominator, isn’t it, always and only Dirk, trusting you in a way you’ve never seen in anyone. 

You sigh and shift your legs from tucked underneath you to hanging over the side of the couch. You’re getting dangerously close to hard just from thinking about this tomfoolery, and that’s not exactly ideal right now. Okay. No. You’ll just think about something else, c’mon, you don’t have to think about this every minute of every day. 

You lean your head back onto the back of the couch and close your eyes. The house is quiet except for the sound of Dirk’s footsteps pattering around the upstairs, all soft and light as they trace back and forth and back and forth over your head. You wonder what’s he pacing about. Maybe he’s just been in the house too much? You’ve noticed that he doesn’t get out as much as he used to before all of this started, but that’s all by his own choice, he has a car and he can fly for Christ’s sakes, and you blink your eyes open abruptly as Dirk’s footsteps begin to echo down the stairs.

You turn your head onto its side so that you can watch Dirk lope downstairs. He’s beautiful. He’s always beautiful, whether his face is purple or its usual pasty white, whether he’s all in one piece or broken, and he’s beautiful when he notices you staring and smiles. 

“Hey,” he says. 

“Hay is for horses,” you tell him, but your tone isn’t chiding at all. 

He smiles again, a funny little thing that makes you wonder if this conversation might be going down the dark alley you desperately want it to, and says, “Fitting enough, then.”   
  
Dirk sits down next to you on the couch, but he doesn’t settle back into the plush cushions. 

(You’ve killed him on this couch before, you held your hands to his throat and snapped his neck just before he ran out of air, and once he was resurrected, you fucked him in the same spot where he’d just died and kissed every inch of his throat.) 

“Is everything alright, swan?” you ask, reaching a hand up to take one of his and not, not, not getting your hopes up. He’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

He squeezes your hand. Muscle memory makes your hand tense right back, but it’s not his hands that your nerves remember. You take a deep breath and remind yourself that it doesn’t have to be like  _ that  _ all the time.

“Dirk?”   
  
He does that funny little smile again, a little sliver of teeth peeking out from the space between his lips like the first glimpse of bone underneath broken skin, and says, “Yeah, everything’s alright. Um. I was just … you know.“   


You draw in another deep breath, but this one is sharp, this one holds excitement and months of planning and your hand is suddenly sweaty in Dirk’s as you say, “When?”

Dirk relaxes back into the couch and presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’ll leave it up to you. Got any idea how it’s going down?”   
  
There’s a pause as you think. God, you have  _ so many  _ ideas. “I think I might want it to be a bit of a surprise, if that’s all fine and kosher?” 

DIrk snorts softly. “I’m pretty sure this shit ain’t kosher, as a general rule, but, um. Yeah. That sounds good.”

“Good.” You lean in and kiss him then, one hand still clasping his and the other cupping his cheek with your thumb tucked under his chin so that you can feel his pulse. Soon, soon, and it’s going to be damn near impossible to choose what you want to do to him. “It’ll be sometime today, okay?”   


“Okay,” he murmurs. His lips are still a breath away from yours, and his voice has gone quiet and slow in a way you recognize a little too well. 

You pull back just enough to kiss him on his forehead - you can see his eyelids flutter shut in the space between his face and his shades, he’s so impossibly beautiful and so impossibly yours - before straightening up and clapping his knee with a little more force than strictly necessary. “Alright, then, I’d better get planning, so I’ll see you later, dear.”

His face wavers for a moment, like he’s trying not to let himself grin, and he nods. “See you later.” 

You stand up from the couch on legs that are a little too shaky with excitement to work properly, and you flash him one last beaming smile before you head upstairs. Okay. Now all you have to do is decide how you’re going to get him this time. 

*

It’s a hard decision. There’s the bathtub, there’s your personal arsenal, there are cars and rooftops and your bare hands, but by the time the sun is setting and you’re pouring the wine into glasses and taking a whiff of Dirk’s glass to ensure that the smell isn’t too obvious, you know you’ve made the right decision. You’ve done plenty of research, of course, and this one… well, it’s going to hurt. It’ll probably burn his throat a bit, and the poison control websites you visited said it’s likely to cause convulsions as well. But, hey, without a hospital, the detergent is almost definitely fatal, and Dirk is going to look so beautiful when he falls apart. 

You place the detergent back into its cupboard and carry the wine glasses out into the kitchen with steadier hands than you expected yourself to have. The food is already on the table - steak that’s probably a bit too rare and microwaved green beans because, hey, you’ve never been a chef - and all there’s left to do is bring Dirk downstairs. 

You’d love to go upstairs and escort him down to the kitchen on your arm, a little bit gentleman, a little bit Stockholm, but you’d also love for him to not be expecting to die when it happens, so you settle for calling upstairs. “DIrk, dinner’s ready, love!”

There’s not even an answer before he appears at the top of the stairs. His face is composed as always, but you know him well enough to see the anticipation in his jaw, his muscles. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to get over how much you love him, how amazing it is that you’re the one that gets to take the reins and bring him down. 

“What’d you make?” he asks as he comes down. 

Well, that’s a loaded question if there ever was one. You can’t see his eyes, but you have a feeling they’re searching yours, looking for some sort of tell. Is it now? Is he getting dinner at all, or is the hand behind your back holding a gun? If not now, then when? When he’s taking the plates to the dishwasher, will you grab him from behind and -

“Steak,” you say. He follows you into the kitchen, his steps heavier than usual since he’s not concentrating on keeping them quiet, and lets himself smile when you pull his chair out for him with a sweeping bow. “For you, Mr. Strider.”   
  
“Why thank you, Mr. English,” he says, mocking your prim voice and sitting down. There’s a beat, then - “I don’t suppose it’d be worth askin’ if it’s going to be now.”

You sit down across from him at the small table, reaching a hand out to grab onto his and rub your thumb over his knuckles. You can see your face, vaguely, in the glass of the window over Dirk’s shoulder, and there’s no way that Dirk can’t see how predatory your smile looks. “I haven’t the foggiest what you could be referring to.”

“Yeah, I figured as much,” he says, but you must have gotten him to let his guard down just a bit, because he gently drops your hand, takes his shades off, rests them on the counter, and leans back in his chair. “Thanks for cooking, by the way.”

“Anything for you,” you say, and yeah, okay, it’s cheesy, but you’re never going to be able to stop being cheesy around Dirk. 

He gives you that little half-smile, the one reserved for when you’re being a cliché bastard, and starts eating. You… may or may not have put in a bit more salt than better taste would suggest in order to persuade Mr. Dehydration to take a sip of wine sooner than usual, but of course, since it’s Dirk and you hardly ever cook, he makes an impressive attempt to hide his slight wince and doesn’t even spare his glass a second glance. Well, playing the waiting game’s fun, too, sure, even if the way you’ve been half-hard all day isn’t exactly the best for that.

“How is it?” you ask. 

“It’s good,” Dirk says, halfway through cutting off another piece of steak when he looks up at you, bright (beautiful) eyes suddenly suspicious. “Why aren’t you eating?”   
  
You smile a little wider, show a little more teeth, remind yourself to be patient because this is going to be so much better when he’s completely surprised. “Are you accusing me of something?”   


It’s so funny, the games you play when all of the cards - and a wine glass filled with cationic detergent - are on the table in plain sight, when the clock is ticking and you both know it’s going to be soon, when Dirk knows he was banished upstairs for most of today so that you could set everything up exactly how you wanted it. Dirk leans forward a bit, his elbows on the table and his eyes searching yours. “Are you confessing?”   


“I’m trying to have a right splendid dinner with my boyfriend is what I’m doing,” you say, and you hold eye contact with Dirk, unblinking and unwavering, as you take a bite of steak.

Dirk is silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in the way that betrays the fact that he’s running some sort of calculations in that ticker of his, but your words seem to have passed whatever litmus test he was holding you up against. He leans back once more. “Yeah, alright,” he relents. “So, did I tell you about the new project Jane wants to work on with us?”   
  
You love Jane dearly, and you’re sure that whatever project she wants to complete will be an absolutely swimming time for all involved, but there’s poison in the wine glass that Dirk seems to be refusing to touch and all you can think about is how he’s going to look when it happens. But - surprise makes it sweeter, so you dial your smile down a notch and pretend that you care about baking robots. 

The conversation, however boring it is in comparison to the current situation just waiting to unfold all around you, is exactly what you need. It drags on as the sun sets, as Dirk’s eyes stop darting around every time you move and he seems to accept that whatever is happening, it’ll be once dinner is over. He doesn’t touch his wine. That’s not a surprise, really, he’s the weird kind of fellow that prefers to eat all of his food before he drinks anything, but he eats so slowly and your heart won’t stop doubling its speed each time his hand does so much as angle itself towards the right side of the table. You down two glasses of wine in an attempt to subconsciously sway him to no avail. 

Finally, finally, the conversation drifts from Jane and projects. Dirk sets down his fork, and his fingers wrap around the neck of the wine glass. You’re trying not to give anything away, not yet, not yet, but Christ, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest and knowing that it’s about to stop….  _ jumping fucking jehoshaphat.  _

“This has been really nice,” Dirk says. The room is dark, now, the light from the windows faded and only the overhead light casting strange, beautiful shadows down onto Dirk’s face. His eyes are warm and content, and something about him tugs at your heart and your dick in perfect synchronicity.

“You know, Jake, I know I don’t usually get emotional, um, aside from the obvious, but … I love you, like, a lot. And I appreciate everything you do, from the, well, you know, to stuff like this, and, uh.” He is the sweetest person you’ve ever known and you love him more than you thought you could love anyone and he pauses to take a sip of wine. You bite back something like a whimper. “And I just, I love you.”   
  
Okay. The glass settles back onto the table, Dirk looks fine right now, he doesn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss in the taste, and you’re kind of torn between coming in your pants, proposing to him, and grabbing him by his shirt and pouring the rest of the wine down his throat  _ now.  _ You settle for squirming in your seat and telling him, “I love you, too, you daft little plum, and I should hope by now that you know you don’t need to thank me for all of this. Hell, I should be the one thanking you.”   
  
He shakes his head a little, but he doesn’t protest, and - ah, there it is, there it is, the glass is back in his hand and he’s taking a longer sip now, oh, Christ, there’s half of the glass, gone. You watch his throat work and have to dig your nails into your thigh before you do anything stupid. You’re so, so close, any second now. There’s far more than a fatal dose in that glass. 

Dirk’s posture shifts, still relaxed but holding some of that excitement from earlier. “So-” he starts, but he’s barely gotten through the syllable when his face does this funny sort of twist, a bit like a grimace and a wince all at once, and his free hand moves to rest against his stomach. You hold your breath. 

“Jake, I - “ Dirk cuts himself off. His face twists up again, just a bit, and it seems like he’s moving each vertebrate of his spine one by one as he sits up perfectly straight. He’s grimacing, a bit, there’s that pain, it can’t feel too pleasant to have something quite literally burning holes inside of you, but his eyes have taken on that perfect mix of fear and want. “God, have I ever told you that you’re perfect?”

You let your smile fall all the way open like a wound and laugh like every villain from every movie ever made. “Why, Dirk, dear, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“It’s the - “ It’s a gasp that cuts Dirk off this time, a hitched sound that falls from his throat and straight to your dick. Oh, fuck, but he’s beautiful, he’s beautiful, he’s starting to break and he’s letting you shatter him into pieces. “It’s the wine, isn’t it.”   
  
You laugh. It’s an awful sound. “Hole in one,” you tell him. Your legs itch to stand and go to him, to grab him by the chin and hold him close and hear every synapse burn out, but no, not yet. You’ll let him hit the floor first. He likes that. 

Dirk opens his mouth, presumably to respond or to ask what it is that’s coursing through his system right now, but all that comes out is a wretched choke, and oh god, oh god, his entire body convulses, jerking forward and slamming his hand against the table like some horrible galvanized creature, and he’s the eighth wonder right here, now, in this moment. 

“It’s detergent,” you explain, and Christ, when did your voice drop an octave? “It’ll mess you up something awful, and it’s going to get it done right efficiently.” 

“Well then, you better get a move on if you want to do anything beforehand,” Dirk says, and he’s trying for suave but it’s hard when his breath is stuttering between every word and his hands can’t decide whether to grab the table for stability or his stomach in that instinctual want to rip out the pain. 

You smile, you reach under the table and unbutton your khakis in slow motion, you watch Dirk shudder and grimace and it would almost be concerning if you couldn’t see his eyes. “In due time, swan, but since you’re still upright I’ll give you a tad bit longer.”

Well, famous last words and all that. Dirk convulses again, his hand knocks over the wine - beautiful, beautiful, you’ve never spilled his blood on this table but now you think you might have to -, and he’s on the floor with a sound you don’t think you’ll ever forget. 

“Jake,” he gasps, and your name isn’t a prayer so much as a promise, “Jake,  _ please _ .” 

And for all of your coy games, hearing his voice like that always sends something splintering into your chest, a reminder that you are the only one who can do this to him and that your need is mutual and that when you drop onto your knees beside him a moment later, he will try his jungle-running best to kiss you even though there’s blood starting to dribble out past his lips. 

It should, objectively, be disgusting. Dirk’s making these little hitching chokes into your mouth, all spit and blood, and it should be disgusting but you’re hard and all you can do is straddle Dirk and pull him close, close, closer. 

“ _ Jake, _ ” he insists, “god, fuck-” Another paroxysm wracks through his body, and you press your weight down onto him just enough to keep him still. God, this is one of the best ideas you’ve ever had. 

“What do you want, Dirk?” you ask, and at first, you think his muscles have slipped from his control again, but no, no, it’s just his hips jerking up to meet yours, and you can’t help the gasp that falls from your mouth. “You’re perfect, baby, you’re doing so well.”   
  
He smiles, a bit, and his chin is dripping with a disgusting, foamy blood, and you press a kiss to the side of his neck, just over his pulse, and close your eyes. “I wish I had the time to fuck you,” you murmur. Your hips are grinding down into him of their own accord; he’s not hard, rarely is once he gets this far along, but he’s choking on spit and moans and his hands are clutching at the back of your shirt and pulling you close, close, closer. “You’d feel so good clenching all tight around me, my little clam, my darling pearl.” You barely know what you’re saying anymore, but it seems to satisfy Dirk if the sound he makes is anything to go by. 

When you lift your head from the crook of his neck to gaze down at him again, his face is a sickly, asphyxiated purple and the sharp scent of near-death is in the air. You watch him, for a moment, his throat retching in these awful, beautiful symphonies, his entire body seizing and shaking in what feels like one long, disjointed motion. He is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

Time isn’t something you have much of a sense of right now, but you’re guessing he doesn’t have more than a minute left, which is why you’re surprised when he manages to gasp out, “You can -  _ fuck _ , ah, before dinner, I…” The words become a fresh fit of choking, but their meaning is clear and god, god, Dirk is  _ perfect _ .

You tell him as much as you lift your hips just enough to slide your khakis and his loose sweatpants down and find him already prepped, still slick with lube and unresisting as you push your hips forward and slide in. Oh, Christ. Oh,  _ Christ.  _ You’re already ridiculously close, but it’s still doubtful that he’s going to last longer than you, at this point, and you’ve never gone that far but his arms are still grasping - weakly, now, loss of motor function and he’s really pushing it now - at your back and pulling you close, and this might be the worst thing you’ve ever done but there’s no way you’re stopping now. 

Even his contortions are getting weaker now, but god,  _ god,  _ they make him tense up around you and it’s the best thing you’ve ever felt. He’s burning hot, wine is dripping through the boards of the table and onto Dirk’s shirt, every time you push into him he chokes just a bit, pinkish spittle flying onto you, and it’s gross, it’s gross, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever even imagined. 

“Almost there, love, hold on just a moment for me,” you tell him, but you’re both rapidly approaching the point of no return. “Stay with me, Dirk.”

He’s trying to, that much is clear by the near-death rattles he’s drawing in, but you can feel his body starting to slacken around you. Oh, fuck, you can’t think about that too hard, fuck, you’re moving faster and faster and Dirk is like a ragdoll against the floor.

“Jake,“ Dirk gasps out. You know that tone. You look up at him once more, and he’s barely recognizable, all purples and grays and pinks and a rapidly dimming orange, and that look in his eyes that he gets right now, right at the end, where he starts to think that this might be the one that sticks. 

You cup the side of his face with one hand and brush your thumb over his lips, wiping away just enough of the mess for you to feel okay about leaning in to kiss him and whisper, “You did so good, plum, you’re so perfect for me, I’ll see you in a cherry pick, okay?”   
  
You think he might try to nod, maybe the tremor in his lips is an attempt at a smile and not just another little paroxysm, but before you can ask what he’s trying to say, he goes slack and still. His eyes are still open when the last bit of thick, congested air rushes out of his throat and oh, god, you’re still inside of him and you’re still hard and - you keep moving. Dirk’s hands slap uselessly against your back as you push into him, deeper and faster and he’s gone, he’s gone, he let  _ you  _ do this, and you come just as the now-familiar pink glow begins to emanate from under his skin. 

For a moment, you stay braced over and inside him, panting, but then he starts to lift off of the ground and you pull out and sit back to watch. Dirk’s limp form is enshrouded in a radiant blend of white light, and then, just as suddenly as it all began, he’s back on the ground in front of you, blinking those beautiful, beautiful eyes open. 

“Hey,” he says. His smile is the sun; you’re a hopeless ozone layer if you’re anything at all. “Thanks. Seriously.”

You smile back as you lie down on the floor next to him - it’s still covered in blood and saliva and god knows what else, but it’s not like you can even claim to care at this point - and slide an arm under his neck and around his shoulders. “I, uh, I hope you don’t mind, but I kind of… well, the train left the station, and the conductor was still aboard, so to speak,” you say. “Sorry.”

Dirk’s silent for a moment, likely trying to parse whatever the hell it is that just left your mouth, but then he makes this sound that’s like a snort, if snorts could ever fall under the label of sexually incredulous and impressed at the same time, and says, “Fuck, don’t apologize, that’s. Uh. Damn, Jake.”

He turns his head onto its side to face you, and his eyes alone get your insides so jumbled that if someone asked, you’re not sure you could properly identify who just ingested cationic detergent. It’s quite possible that you’re the luckiest son of a gun in the entire cosmos. 

You’re still trying to form a coherent sentence that’s not just asking Dirk if you can kill him again, say,  _ now _ , when he grins, a tricky little thing, and says, “You up for round two?”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> FULL CW: dirk and jake have an arrangement where jake kills dirk; dirk asks to be killed and jake agrees to "surprise him." jake then poisons dirk without dirk knowing. while dirk is dying (which is described fairly graphically), he asks jake to fuck him, and jake does. jake briefly continues to do so after dirk is dead; when dirk resurrects, he's okay with everything that happened.
> 
> thanks for reading! feedback and prompts are always welcome.


End file.
